Seven Kisses
by strange-charmed
Summary: Tender or friendly or teasing or passionate - it's always *them*. A collection of Doctor/Rose ficlets.
1. The curve of his belly

It's one of the first times they've been _together, _and it's the very first time that it hasn't been hurried, quick and desperate, as if they both feared that the other one would disappear, or change their mind. They're more comfortablenow, their breaths more like sighs than ragged heaves. She's taking this more languid opportunity to learn _him _now, the differences and similarities from the man he used to be. She moves slowly down his body, licking and nibbling his torso as he lies on his back, enraptured by the golden halo of tousled hair teasing against his skin as she makes her way to what they both know is her destination. She arrives at his stomach, and pauses momentarily, her head lifting, and her eyes rising to meet his own, more quizzical than passionate.

"Did you always have a belly button?"

He shakes his head in a silent _no_, eyes still dark with desire, not wanting to ruin the moment with conversation and reminders of people lost to him, of how this made him the man – the slightly different, more human man – that he is today.

Somehow, she understands. She smiles and gives his navel a soft kiss all its own, before continuing down his body.


	2. The ridge of her hips

Scrapes and cuts and bumps and bruises are part of her life now, and she wears them with more pride than she ever wore her bronze in gymnastics. But _this_ time it's a jagged gash in her skin, a little bit more painful and larger than usual. It's a parting shot from a creature that her Doctor had swiftly defeated, his mouth set in a thin line of rage, after he heard her yelp of pain. He brings her to the med bay right away, his hand firmly on her arm to both steady and lead her. She grabs ahold of his arm for support, and because digging her nails into his thick leather jacket makes her all that less likely to wince in pain.

Arriving in the med bay, she realizes that she needs to get out of her clothes _now_, and she removes the jeans she'd saved up for months to buy from her first job out of school with a slight bit of reluctance. They're ruined anyway with a large tear, and caked with the bright red of her own blood.

This is the first time he's ever had to clean her up like this, and she turns her face away. She's used to alien technology by now, but the dermal regenerator is _huge _and not unlike the pincers on the creature that put her into this state to begin with. Even so, from the corner of her eye, she can see its blue electric current reaching out to her skin, tingling and zapping her skin cells, knitting them together back into health.

It turns off abruptly and she looks at him, waiting for his reaction. He's hunched down over her bare hip, eyes scanning over it from all angles, and he runs a finger over the healed wound. She suppresses a shiver.

"Perfect," he says, and if he were a human bloke she'd tease him, ask him flirtatiously if he _really_ thought so, and tell him he's not so bad himself.

Instead, she nods back at him, and he grins, the broad grin she's grown to love.

"All set then," he says, and this time, for whatever reason, she can't resist.

"You know, back home on Earth, they say you're supposed to kiss it better."

His eyes flick up to hers, and she's _positive _he's going to make a comment about stupid ape traditions. She holds her breath as he holds her gaze steadily, and resolutely, and slowly brings his lips down to her bare flesh.

She _lets _herself shiver then, but before she can raise herself up, tug on his leather lapels and bring his mouth to her own, he gives her that quicksilver smile again, and turns on his heel, talking about other healing traditions on other planets that someday – _someday _– he promises to take her to.

She sighs. _Someday_, indeed.


	3. The contour of his jawline

He hisses a Gallifreyan curse under his breath as he feels the tiny sting of nicking himself yet again, and sees a little trail of blood peeking out from the shaving cream. He's shaved this face a thousand times before, but for some reason it's only _now _as a biological metacrisis that he ends up cutting himself so often. He could blame the razors on Pete's World easily enough – there was a _reason _they stopped making carbide steel blades in the prime universe, after all – but it's his hand he stares at with a look of betrayal, not the razor. He should be able to compensate for inferior tools, after all. He's still _part_ Time Lord, he should have the ability to master the technology of his choosing, even stupidbackwardsprimitive ones like the tiny tool in his hand.

Somehow, Rose must have heard his curse from outside the en-suite. She knocks softly on the bathroom door and opens it quietly.

"Everything all right in there?"

He turns around to face her, a disheveled picture of annoyance and woe. He's wielding the offending razor the way he used to wield his sonic screwdriver, and her mouth quirks slightly.

"Here, let me …" she says with a soft smile.

She takes a few steps forward, coming to stand in front of him. He doesn't resist as she takes the razor from his hand.

He's tall, and the angle is awkward, and she's afraid she'll do an even worse job than he seems to be doing himself, so she hoists herself up to sit on the sink and spreads her knees wide so that he can stand between them.

He moves forward slowly, into the open invitation of her thighs cupped around his own, and sighs.

"We could get you an electric one," she says gently, as her fingers graze the outline of his jaw and ear, skimming the razor gently over his cheek as she finishes his work.

His nose wrinkles at the idea.

"Hardly," he scoffs, wanting to shake his head in derision but rightly afraid that a sudden movement could lead to another nick. "Can't get it as smooth and close as with a blade."

"You're definitely getting it close, Doctor," she laughs gently.

He stares down at her, the stirring in his abdomen from being in such close proximity to her warring with a residual bit of Time Lord haughtiness about the joke at his expense. She seems to sense his internal battle, and she sighs, puts down the razor, and slowly wipes the remaining shaving gel off his face with a nearby washcloth. This decides the war within him, as he closes his eyes and leans into her hand.

"I do like it smooth like this, tho," she breathes into his cheek, kissing the scabbed-over nick and sliding her lips across the outline of his jaw, back up towards his earlobe. "I like it a lot."

He moves in closer to her, pulling her thighs even tighter around his waist, so she can show him just how much.


	4. The corner of his mouth

They walk together, hands entwined, fingers slippery from popcorn and salted pretzels and too many elephant ears.

They've run out of tickets for any more rides, which is fine with her because she's not sure his dizzying exuberance for the Tilt-A-Whirl will survive the sheer number of fried bananas he has consumed in the past ten minutes. Instead, she tugs him along towards the twinkling main lights of the boardwalk. They saunter along casually, a far more leisurely pace than their constant running, and she smiles into his shoulder.

Arms now linked, they meander past the callers and piped music at the ring toss stand and the bright bulb lights flickering over the ski ball booth. He nudges her playfully towards the weight guessing game, and muses over how many kilos of bratwurst she has eaten today. It's when he actually starts _calculating _his prediction aloud that she nudges him hard in the ribs, and he coughs and splutters – but he's not nearly as wounded as he _woulda _been had he finished that thought.

At his self-pitying whine, she sticks out her tongue, still red from the raspberry shaved ice they're currently sharing, and as his eyes flick to her mouth she waves her spoon teasingly in the direction of the kissing booth as a retort.

He turns his head to look where she's pointing and she freezes for a moment, oddly panicked and suddenly regretting this, a sudden chill running down her spine that is even colder than the frozen dessert clutched in her hand. The girl in the booth is _beautiful_, blonde hair and blue eyes and a little too reminiscent of someone she'd just as soon they both forget.

He turns around back towards her slowly and shrugs.

"You've got the money," he says, smiling cheekily, eyes sparkling as he takes a huge, overfilled spoonfill of the shaved ice that would have given a mere human brainfreeze, but leaves him untouched except for the tiny trail of red sugar on his cheek.

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, her relief bubbling up as a grin on her face.

"Could have one for free, ya know," she says, and it's _far_ more innuendo than she ever would normally say around this version of him, and she's momentarily nervous but he smiles at her in a slow, simmering grin and it's all OK.

She leans forward towards him, slowly, eyes intent, and sees his own eyes widen as his breath slows and he stands completely still, waiting for her move.

Lips slightly parted, she leans close in to him, drawing her bottom lip slowly across the red sugar left over from their shared snack.

"Mmmmm tastes nice," she murmurs as his breath catches, then she takes a big breath, purses her lips and delivers a noisy gust of air to his cheek.

"Raspberry," she smiles playfully at him, as he chuckles and leans in to capture her lips with his own.


	5. The slope of his neck

He's jumped into this new life – this half-human life – with his typical exuberance, and there's nothing it seems he won't try. His alien interest is piqued, and he throws himself into human minutiae like cooking, and grocery shopping, and even laundry with a relish that she wasn't expecting, as if he sees them as opportunities and not as the chains on a prison made of carpets and doors and curtains. She helps him explore these tiny, day-to-day adventures as best she can, wanting to make it an adventure for them _both_. And she most _certainly_ makes sure to be present on adventures such as this, as they sit side-by-side at a long, crowded bar, their conversation nearly drowned out by the pulsating music, the oppressive heat of the place almost surpassed by the heat of the glances he keeps getting from a few of the women around them.

The adventure of the evening is to get themselves stupendously sloshed, properly pissed, indubitably inebriated and all the other phrases he's been trying out for size and fit and feel on his new tongue, rolling them around for taste and texture between his teeth like a cherry stem tied into a knot. It's making Rose stare far, far harder than at his lips than she'd planned on, an effort made much more difficult after three Flamin' Beavers, two Purple Hooters and one Red-Headed Slut … and if that _brunette _on his right 'accidentally'brushes his arm with her tits one more time, Rose _swears to God_...

Rose suspects she's going to have a headache tomorrow. Not just from the alcohol, either – she's flushed not only with drinks, but with the thrill of this little game they're playing, to order the dirtiest-named concoctions possible. The thought suddenly occurs to her that it's a _new _way of skirting the issue of this new relationship between them, dancing around words instead of the TARDIS console as they get to know each other again, she supposes, and the realization sobers her slightly.

"Buttery Nipple?" he asks huskily with an inexplicable little smirk, his eyes hazy and completely focused on Rose.

Rose gives small smile and shrugs.

"Or even better! Buttery Nipple With a Cherry Kiss, how _marvelous_ does that sound?"

She looks into his eyes then, at his cheerful novelty over this new experience, and although she doesn't want to take this away from him, she's not sure if she wants to stay or go in that moment. Suddenly, there's something new and uncertain encroaching into his gaze, and any of her own reluctance flips into her stomach and disappears. She _won't_ ruin this for him, she can't.

"Rose," he whispers, his eyes gentle and his hand lightly reaching over to cover her own. "Is this –"

"One minute," Rose interrupts, downing the glass of water in front of her, the lemon slice perched on the rim of the glass giving her an idea.

She hesitates only momentarily. _Screw it, _she thinks to herself suddenly, what does she have to lose? Better yet, why the hell do they keep dancing around this? He's either willfully ignoring every other woman there on Rose's behalf, or he doesn't register that their little game is full of double entendres at all. Either way, it's a plausible excuse for what she's tempted to do, and the alcohol is making her care less and less as the moments tick by.

"Actually, Doctor, I think there's one part of your education tonight that's lacking," she says, drawing out the syllables on every word, and his eyes grow darker as he leans further towards her with a curious expression on his face, his gaze focused entirely on her mouth.

"Shot of Patron, please," she shouts to the bartender over the din surrounding them, and it's quickly delivered to her.

The Doctor sits on the barstool facing her, completely immobile, as Rose pulls his suit collar back and to the side. She pulls his T-shirt slightly off to the side as well, to expose more of his neckline. Running her fingers gently over the soft skin, she sprinkles a fine trail of salt along his neck towards the hollow of his clavicle.

"Rose," he whispers, but it doesn't seem like an objection at all to her ears, "what are you…"

She brings a single finger to his lips then, moist and cool from his drinks, and uses the slack-jawed expression on his face to gently ease his mouth open.

"Like this," she says, placing a wedge of lime gently between his teeth. He holds it just as she's positioned it, his gaze hot and riveted on hers.

Almost achingly slowly, she brings her mouth down to his neck, her tongue caressing the skin, and she licks up the sprinkles of salt as she incidentally finds them. She starts to suck harder, near his pulse point, and knows she'll leave a mark, but his breath quickens and his hands find her hips, drawing her in, and she presses her body into his, her hands tangling in his hair.

Without warning, her mouth pops off his neck, and he's staring at her breathily, his hands still firmly on her hips. Holding his gaze, she feels around on the bar for her shot of Patron, swigs it, and then moves towards his mouth, hearing him moan before she even reaches her destination. Her mouth meets the lime, the sour little impediment to what she _really _wants to do, and she nips at his bottom lip as his arms come up to embrace her.

All of a sudden, his hand reaches up and the rind is gone, it's just their lips and mouths moving together, salt and sour and tequila and _them_, all pretenses gone. _Finally_.

After a long moment, they pull back, foreheads together, and he chuckles.

"Much better than a Cherry Kiss," he murmurs, and she laughs.

They ignore the bartender's suggestion of a Sex On The Beach, on the house, as they take each other's hands and head for the exit.


End file.
